When it comes to Halloween candy, it’s my policy to overbuy. Don’t be cheap; running out is a real rookie move, and whatever excess you have can go to the office the next day.

Last Halloween was my final one at the old house in Glenmont, so I decided to treat the kids to full-sized candy bars. It was a huge hit and made me feel like the King of Halloween.

But I wonder if it will bring unintended consequences.

There is a chance that kids will return to my old house expecting big candy bars, and the children — being by nature half-wild and unpredictable — might not react well.

Imagine scores of kids looking into their bags and saying, “What? This was supposed to be the place with the big candy bars?!”

Who knows what tricks could befall the owners of my old home? But I’ll tell you what: Based on their behavior on the day of our closing, I do sort of hope that the little ghosts and goblins go into full fun-sized outrage.

But enough of that! Give generously on this spooky night and spread a little simple joy — or else risk tempting the dark spirits that reside in all of us.

Oh, Times Union. Here’s the latest development as they creep toward full paywall:

Indulge me as I tell a story.

Years ago, the Times Union’s marketing director, Bob Provost, invited us TV station people over for a meeting. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I remember that he gave us a tour.

We saw the vast, bustling newsroom, rows of busy graphic designers, phones ringing off the hook in the sales office — and most impressive of all, the production plant where the massive presses sat.

Everything was was spotless and impeccable and unfailingly professional.

And it was intimidating.

Even my boss, the general manager, seemed a bit overwhelmed. We looked around and saw a leviathan that sucked in ad dollars. Who could compete with this? They might as well be printing money on those presses.

How times have changed.

I’ll repeat something I’ve noted before: local TV still doesn’t charge you a penny for their content. They sell advertising and the advertising pays the bills. Newspapers charge you for their product and fill it with ads. And isn’t that like making you pay for it twice?

In the wake of the Harvey Weinstein firestorm, two Times Union bloggers wrote brutally frank #metoo accounts about being sexual assault victims.

The newspaper took down the posts and suspended their accounts.

Yes, you read that right.

Chuck Miller, who had his own trouble with the Times Union, re-published the posts by Heather Fazio and Fran Rossi Szpylczyn on his blog. The paper put Fran’s post back up when she agreed to change the term “cock-tease” to “c*ck-tease” — as if that makes a difference. According to Chuck Miller, Heather Fazio has refused to change what she wrote.

Both bloggers were notified of their suspension by Tena Tyler, who’s listed on the masthead as “Senior Editor, Engagement.” Here’s how she engaged them:

Sorry about your sexual assault, but you violated our terms of service.

And what terms are those?

“You agree not to post, e-mail or otherwise make available content: – that is unlawful, harmful, threatening, abusive, harassing, lewd, defamatory, pornographic, libelous or invasive of another’s privacy or harms minors in any way”

OK, so a woman’s story about being attacked — in one case as a child — is “lewd” and “pornographic.” That’s fucking sick, Ms. Tyler.

Look, I’ve complained about the Times Union’s blog page for a long time, especially about the way they manipulate people and the one-sided relationship between the paper and the bloggers– but this is too much.

Any writer who continues blogging with the Times Union is out of their mind. Maybe you enjoy the opportunity to reach a large audience, but at what cost? A deal with the devil often seems like a good idea until the bill comes due.

This isn’t about me wanting special treatment, it’s about common sense.

I recently parked my car downtown so I could move a bunch of boxes from one office to another. I figured I’d be out to fetch the car by 8:30, but I built in a little padding.

After being delayed, I went out to the car, where an Abany Parking Authority meter attendant was writing me a ticket — and this was at 8:51. Three minutes after my fee expired, I’m getting a ticket.

“You’re in violation,” she barked. “I’ve already written the ticket.”

Seriously? Three minutes?

After a bit of back and forth, the woman relented, but gave me a fuck you look as she stalked away. Yeah, you have a nice day, too.

So, let me ask you a question: should they ticket people the second their meter expires or allow a five to ten minute grace period. Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems like bullshit to pounce on violators the moment their time is up.

And pounce is what they do.

My co-workers claim that Albany Parking Authority’s pay stations and parking app alert officers of expiring payments. Think about it. If they know a car is expired in their patrol area, they can just stroll over and write a ticket. Or stroll over and wait for it to run out.

That sounds a bit conspiratorial — but why wouldn’t they do this?

I’m not suggesting that people shouldn’t pay to park — or that rules should be ignored — but being overly aggressive may be bad policy. Welcome to Albany.

When you live less than a mile from Indian Ladder Farms, fresh apples are just moments away — but why do that when you can pick them on your front lawn?

We were blessed with a bunch of apple trees at our new house, and recently we’ve made apple cake, apple bars, apple crunch, applesauce — all with fruit from our trees. The apples aren’t beautiful, but we’re using them. Next year? Cider — both sweet and hard.

There is some work to this. The trees need regular pruning, and Cooperative Extension has recommended a care plan that should remedy a bit of a fungus problem. Then there’s taking care of the dropped fruit, which has added up to hundreds and hundreds of pounds of apples.

This doesn’t mean I won’t be to Indian Ladder Farms. Warm donuts and fresh beer are just down the road. Those are things that don’t grow on trees.

Our dog, Scarlett, has a small repertoire of tricks — certainly enough to impress visitors and to qualify her as the best trained dog in our neighborhood.

But when it comes to training dogs, I’ve never seen anything like what I saw in Scotland.

At a Leault Farm, just off the road between Edinburgh and Inverness, shepherd Neil Ross trots out a gang of border collies who move sheep exactly where he wants them in a vast field. But what makes this truly amazing is that he controls individual dogs on command.

With a combination of words and whistles, one dog will jump up and race hundreds of yards away and loop around the sheep. Then, on command, the dog will drive the sheep where Ross wants them. With more shouts and whistles he’ll send a different dog out on another route — then another and another.

It’s uncanny.

After the herding, you see how sheep are sheared – you can give it a try, if you like. The dogs wander around and socialize with the visitors; they’re calm and friendly – which is unusual for intense working dogs.

Aside from the beat up Range Rover, it could have been a hundred years ago. The lush green fields, the sheep, the dogs. A visit to this farm gives you a peek at a way of life that’s endangered on every side.

Neil Ross was born in the house on the farm, and he told us his kids are taught at home, far from “the nonsense they learn in school about the environment and politics.” That turned a few heads, but I can’t say I blame him.

NOTE: If your interested in rural life in the UK, I recommend A Shepehrd’s Life by James Rebanks. It’s a beautifully written book.

All around Scotland, ancient people left clues about their existence, but there’s still great mystery surrounding the way they lived — and died.

The Corrimony Cairn is deep in the countryside down a narrow road in the Highlands, and while it may not be as grand as a place like Stonehenge, you feel a strange force viewing this 4,000 year old burial chamber.

Our tour guide pointed to the standing stones that circled the main structure. “Some people believe that if you hug those stones, they bring long life.”

Long life? Ok, why not. It was a wet day, but really: are you going to visit the cairn and not hug a rock?

The next day we were off in another small bus and on our rainy way to the Isle of Skye. We stopped at a lovely spot along the way with a stone bridge over a winding creek. It all stood below a dramatic cluster of mountains, and even on a misty day it was stunning.

Our guide, Chris, pointed down to the river. “It’s said, that if you put your face in the water for six seconds, it will bring you eternal beauty.”

I was the only taker. It was extremely cold water.

Chris teased me a bit along the way about my facial, and how I’d been magically transformed. I remarked that it must be very distracting to see me in the rear view mirror.

It wasn’t until later that I wondered what else these drivers get tourists to do — and how much of it is malarkey. But who am I to complain, now that I am blessed with long life and eternal beauty?